


lay my tongue upon your scars

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, The Academy Is...
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-25
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	lay my tongue upon your scars

Mikey doesn’t have any particular reason to trust William, but he doesn’t have any particular reason _not_ to, either, and that seems good enough right now.

He follows William out of the party, out of the club, out to the street and into the cab, then lets his head fall back against the seat and takes a deep breath. His head is throbbing, like his heart and his nerves are still pulsing in time with the bass line he can’t hear anymore. He’s restless, edgy, out of sorts, and he just let himself listen to one of Gabe’s ideas. There is so much potentially wrong here, he doesn’t even know where to begin.

William’s hand settles on Mikey’s knee, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh. “Hey,” William says, and Mikey glances at him, comparing the angles of his face against the mental image of the half-finished kid Mikey had met and remembered him as, until tonight.

“It’s cool,” William says.

“Yeah.” Mikey brushes his hair off his forehead. “I know. I’m totally relaxed.”

William’s fingers tap against his thigh in a restless, dancing pattern. “You’re not relaxed at all.”

“I just can’t believe we’re listening to Gabe.”

The corner of William’s mouth quirks up in a smile. “You _need_ to relax. That’s why he suggested it.”

Mikey thumps his head against the window. “Fucking Gabe. He just doesn’t know when to quit.”

William’s fingers tighten a little, nails grazing along Mikey’s thigh through his jeans. “No. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

Mikey swallows and licks his lips. He’s still edgy but now he feels too hot, as well, like there’s a weird cloud of restless energy filling him up and throwing everything off-kilter. “True.”

The cab pulls to a stop in front of a hotel. “C’mon” William slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a key card, rolling it between his fingers like a magician. “Let’s go.”  
**  
Mikey’s phone chirps in the elevator, signalling a text from Pete wanting to know why Mikey left the party. _ask gabe_ , Mikey sends back, watching William from the corner of his eye.

Another message comes in while William is unlocking the door. _he says u & beckett have smth in common? what does that mean?_

Mikey refrains from banging his head against the nearest solid surface and starts to type his reply, cutting off as another text arrives. _ohhh nevermind. wow. have fun b careful mway_

William shoots him a questioning look when he laughs, but Mikey shakes his head, tucking the phone back in his pocket and following William into the room. “It’s fine. Potentially awkward tomorrow, but that’s tomorrow.”

“Only _potentially_ awkward. That puts us ahead of the game, really.” William locks the door, throwing the bolt and the chain for good measure. He stands for a moment, turning the card between his fingers again and looking at Mikey thoughtfully. Mikey leans against the dresser, waiting, not sure what the question in William’s eyes is really asking.

“Do you want a drink or anything?” William asks, tucking the card in his pocket. “Or, like, extensive conversation?”

“Thanks, but I’m good.” Mikey studies him for a minute, the twitchy movements of his hands, the way his eyes don’t quite settle. He followed William out of the club on an impulse, and now it’s an impulse he has to question, because honestly, he isn’t seeing it, no matter what Gabe said.

“Get right to it, then?” William nods slightly, sharply, and cross the room, grabbing a duffel bag from the floor and setting it on the table. “That works.” He digs through one of the side pockets and comes up with a black case, running his fingers over it slowly and then glancing over his shoulder at Mikey.

Mikey can tell he’s not doing a very good job of keeping the skepticism off his face, because William’s eyebrows go up and he smiles a little. “What do you do safeword-wise?” William asks, opening the case.

Mikey watches his hands. “Let’s just go with ‘safeword.’” He doesn’t feel like going too far into things for a first time, especially when he sincerely doubts they’ll be going anywhere near his limits. He isn’t even sure this will work. He isn’t even sure what he’s _doing_ here.

“Straightforward. Great.” William pulls a scalpel out of the case and turns it back and forth, studying the edge in the light. “Take off your shirt, then.”

Mikey’s breath catches a little at the glint of the metal. Fuck. It’s been a really long time. He tugs his t-shirt off slowly, letting it hide his face for a moment while he steadies himself. When he looks again, William is wiping the edge of the blade with an alcohol swab, his fingers long and elegant against the handle. A shiver goes through Mikey, and he bites his lower lip, silently kicking himself. Right, performers. He can actually see William slipping into the new headspace, the new persona, turning it on.

Gabe being right all the time is such a pain in the ass.

“Hands behind your back,” William says, his tone mild and calm but with no room for questions. Mikey brings his hands to the small of his back, crossing his wrists and ducking his head. The air feels colder as sweat prickles on his skin and his pulse jumps. _Yes_.

William crosses over to him, tracing a finger along Mikey’s shoulder, then across his chest, moving around him in a slow circle until his touch reaches the nape of Mikey’s neck. From there it slides down Mikey’s back, leaving a line of heat in his wake, until it reaches his crossed wrists. William’s fingers curl around them loosely, easily, more a reminder than a restraint. Mikey just has time to draw a rough, eager breath before the scalpel touches his neck in the same place and repeats the slow drift down his spine.

He can tell it isn’t breaking the skin, just moving over it, leaving at most a faint white line, a scratch. It still makes his knees want to buckle. He closes his eyes and just feels it, teeth pressing into his lower lip, breathing slowly through his nose and keeping himself perfectly still, letting it happen.

The blade stills when William’s knuckles brush against Mikey’s wrists. He squeezes lightly with his other hand, and Mikey turns his head slightly, looking back over his shoulder. “Good?” William asks softly, his voice different from before. Darker. Mikey nods slightly, pressing his fingers hard against his wrists to keep from asking for more.

William draws the blade up again, this time letting it branch off to the side in a lazy arc, then retreating along the same path and away again, making a mirror image. He does cut on those, just barely, a slight sweet sting, and Mikey closes his eyes tight, picturing tiny beads of blood rising up along the line. Still barely enough pressure to break the skin, light enough that if William wiped the blood away no more would rise and no one could even tell it had been there. Mikey’s stomach twists, hot and low.

“God, your skin is like paper,” William murmurs, moving higher and repeating the mirrored arcs. Mikey pictures his back, mapping out the lines to match the sting on his skin. It’s like an abstract sketch of a flower, stem and leaves, building up toward the top. “Could draw all over you. Spend hours.”

 _Yes_ , Mikey thinks, and the muscles in his arms jerk just a little at the thought. William stills, either waiting him out or in silent reproof, and Mikey bites down on his lip harder to keep from apologizing until the blade starts moving again.

William moves further up, between Mikey’s shoulder blades, cutting in a series of lines from the central point over his spine. They’re sprayed out in a loose triangle, and cut in deeper, deep enough that he feels a drop or two of blood slide slow and thick down his skin. He can’t keep back a moan, letting his head fall forward as the pain blossoms and spreads out. It’s all heat, pulsing through muscle and skin with every beat of his heart, which is pounding now, aching in his chest with want for more.

William steps back, letting go of his wrists. “Jeans off,” he says. “And lie down on your back on the bed.” He moves away while Mikey follows instructions, toward the table again, and Mikey watches him from the corner of his eye, not wanting to lose sight of him for a moment. William’s movements are slow, precisely controlled, and Mikey is tense with the conflict between trusting in that control and wanting it to break, wanting William to take him apart.

He folds his jeans, lying them over the back of a chair, then moves over to the bed, muffling a whimper as his back meets the sheets. This is going to destroy the sheets, come to think of it. Hopefully William has a plan for that.

“Hands over your head.”

He reaches up toward the headboard, lacing his fingers together, holding against his own resistance. William moves close enough to see, and when Mikey meets his eyes, he’s smiling.

“Good. Stay just like that. Don’t move.” William climbs on the bed and moves to straddle Mikey’s thighs, still fully dressed. Black t-shirt and jeans, there’s nothing particularly notable or commanding about it, but right now it’s making Mikey’s throat go dry. “ _Don’t_ move.” William looks down at him, eyes dark and smile growing different, sharper and cruelly pleased, and Mikey knows he’s dancing between the desire for control and abandon, too. “Don’t move a muscle.”

The scalpel settles at the base of his throat this time, in the hollow of his collarbones, and Mikey’s breath hitches in his chest, adrenaline shooting through him like electricity. God, it fucking lights him up, closing his throat and sending his pulse hammering, waking up every corner of his brain.

William presses just a little more, until Mikey feels the point break his skin, the blood rising up and pooling. “Fuck,” William murmurs. “Fuck, yes.” Mikey can feel William’s dick pressed solidly against his own, can tell he’s hard, too, through his own boxers and William’s jeans, but this isn’t about that. Not right now.

William takes a breath and drags the blade down Mikey’s chest, drawing a perfectly centered line down his sternum. His hand is perfectly steady, and Mikey closes his eyes, fighting to keep himself as still, to be marble or a canvas, nothing but material for art.

Down to the end of his breastbone, then left, following the curve of his ribcage, then mirroring that on the right, and Mikey wants to writhe, wants to beg, wants to scream. It hurts like hell and it’s _perfect_ , breaking the skin clean and pure, cutting in escape routes to let all the tension out and make things quiet inside him again.

“Good,” William whispers, “good,” and Mikey takes a breath that catches like a sob. “You can make noise, if you want. It’s okay.” Mikey shakes his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, caught between _don’t move_ and the need to tell him that this is part of the challenge, keeping quiet, keeping _still_ , just letting it be done and not responding on the outside. Just burning down everything within and letting it go.

William sits back, his weight heavy against Mikey’s thighs. He shifts the scalpel to his other hand and flexes his fingers, working them slowly. “God.” He laughs a little, as breathless as Mikey feels. “You are...wow. Gabe was right.”

Mikey isn’t sure if that means they’re done, that William has gotten what he needed; he hopes not, because he’s not quite done himself, he wants just a little more, to go a little further out. He licks his lips and closes his eyes, not willing to ask, trying to just drift in the pain and adrenaline and wait for it. Let it happen.

The next cut is a shock, low on his torso, the soft flesh of his side where the others have mostly been over muscle and bone. He gasps again, his legs jerking, but he keeps his body still, canvas for William’s knife as he cuts four lines deep enough that Mikey _feels_ it, that it’s going to bleed freely, that he’s going to have to actually take care to avoid a lingering mark. He fights for his control but it slips, a low moan escaping on the last cut, rising up roughly through an octave and breaking. _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, perfect.

He hears the slide of William’s zipper and his hips jerk, his body apparently deciding that _not about sex right now_ is over and they’ve moved into _oh Jesus about sex now please_. He opens his eyes, lips parting to ask a question that dies away as he watches William guide himself out and stroke his dick to full hardness.

The bed shifts under him as William moves up, sliding his knees along Mikey’s sides until they’re bracketing his chest and William has one hand braced on the headboard, holding himself up. His hand is still working, jerking himself off fast and tight, his eyes fixed on Mikey’s face and the scalpel clutched in his free hand, tightly enough that his knuckles are white. The edge of the blade is red now, dark with Mikey’s blood, and it makes his hips rock up again, desperate and wanting. There’s red smeared along William’s fingers, too, stark against his skin, and Mikey fights not to ask to lick it clean.

William groans, low in his throat, muscles tensing, and Mikey closes his eyes, waiting. He’s so hard he aches, but it’s not important, it can wait. William comes hot and messy across his face and Mikey licks his lips clean, his breath as loud and ragged as William’s, his eyes still closed tight.

William eases away after a moment and Mikey waits, drifting in his head as the pain starts to settle in. The last cuts, the ones on his side, hurt the worst; whatever William put there, it was deeper, probably needs an actual bandage. He doesn’t really care right now. He doesn’t care about much of anything, and it’s amazing, blissfully fucking quiet in his head like he’s been emptied out.

Cold presses against the cuts and he gasps, eyes flying open. William raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s okay,” he says, low and steady, the dark edge gone from his voice. He sounds sated. Lucky bastard. “Hold this.”

Mikey does as he’s told, holding the wet washcloth against the cuts, and William takes the scalpel over to the table, putting it back in its case and setting that aside. “I’ve got some bandages here,” he says, “and ointment and stuff. Just relax.”

It’s unspoken but obvious that he isn’t getting Mikey off, and Mikey accepts that, settling back against the pillow. It’ll be better, anyway, going back to his own hotel when he’s come down enough for William to let him leave. He can lie in bed and jerk off thinking about this for ages. This might last him for days, actually.

He’s going to have to be so nice to Gabe. Goddamn it.

William comes back to the bed and guides his hand away from the washcloth, then peels that back and studies the cuts, humming softly to himself and looking distinctly pleased. Mikey looks down and chokes on a laugh. “Seriously?”

“It was kind of heat of the moment, okay?”

“Is it a W or an M?”

“It’s a W. Why would it be an M?”

“Well, my name is...”

“And _my_ name is a W. So is yours, kind of, actually. So, you know. It’s multipurpose. Whatever. Shut up.”

“That’s awfully claim-y, dude,” Mikey says, raising an eyebrow at him, and William rolls his eyes, reaching for a tube of ointment.

“Believe me, I’m not that stupid. And that reminds me, you should call Pete, or text him, or something, just check in so he doesn’t do bad things to me on the Internet.”

“He wouldn’t.” Mikey hisses as William coats the cuts--a fucking _W_ , honestly, what the fuck--in ointment. “Jesus Christ.”

“He absolutely would. Breathe. You’re fine.” He rips open a bandage packet and presses that down in place, glancing up at Mikey with a grin. “I’m very good at this. It won’t scar.”

“Good.” Mikey braces himself as William picks up the ointment again and starts in on the shallower cuts. “S-so...fuck...you and Gabe have done this?”

“Are you kidding?” William snorts. “As if he’d let anything endanger his perfect skin. Way too vain for that.”

“So he knew...how?”

“He’s extremely nosy.” William taps his shoulder and Mikey turns over, burying his face against the pillow as William tends to his back. “We should totally tell him we came over here, ordered a pizza, and watched _When I Was 17_ all night.”

“Works for me.” Mikey closes his eyes and breathes out, surrendering again. He knows he has to go soon, and he really should text Pete, but for now he just wants to be here, and let William’s hands move over him and put him together again.  



End file.
